


Picture the Two of Us in my Golden Submarine

by kincaidian



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, British Comedian RPF, Grandma's House (TV)
Genre: M/M, Two thin men in love, fluff to ridiculous degrees, they deserve happy endings too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 18:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kincaidian/pseuds/kincaidian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins, as most troublesome things do, with a blowjob.</p><p>The adventures of two skinny men trying to make sense of life, each other, and other such absurdities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture the Two of Us in my Golden Submarine

**Author's Note:**

> Beta credits to the love of my life, jonjo. Title taken from Jonathan Coulton's Skullcrusher Mountain.
> 
> This fic was written out of affection for Ben and a mild sort of comradeship with Simon.

Ben sinks to his knees. 

Ben sinks to his knees, and Simon can hear the entire world sigh, a great exhale of a breath held too long to keep track of. His hands hesitate to tangle in his dark hair and he thinks of asking, _do you grow you hair out to seem bigger? I think I do that. Subliminally._

He wants to sit at a too-small table in a cramped café in the East End of London and talk about Shakespeare and the people they’ve met. He has this vision of them, leaning over the table, catching each other’s eye, and completing sentences for the other but most often not having to bother. Music and poetry and how anything you want can exist if you believe in it enough. 

Instead, he curls his fingers in Ben’s hair and holds on tight. 

Ben gives head the same way he does everything else; he throws himself into the task with a single-minded determination, a slight furrow of his brow that Simon can’t look away from. The world fades away, this back alley behind some nameless club, the ear-shattering music that slithers under the door and coils around their feet, the vodka that Simon had tasted earlier when he had pulled Ben in for a kiss that had been purely perfunctory, not a prelude but an obligation. Simon’s very presence seems incidental to the cock Ben is sucking, and Simon doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge. 

So he lets his head thud back against the brick wall and relishes the pounding against his temples and the burn along his skin, the warm, wet heat of Ben’s mouth. Ben’s head bobs up and down, his tongue curling along the head, and Simon thinks of cities so deep underwater they never see the sun, and strange three-headed creatures with shopping carts. He thinks of meteors and pianos that fall out of the sky, until his dick touches the back of Ben’s throat and he doesn’t really think of anything anymore. 

After, Ben has a pained expression, his eyes never lingering for too long on Simon’s face. Simon jerks him off efficiently; that’s the only way Ben seems to be able to cope with it. Nearing the end, Ben makes a high, keening moan like he’s been hurt terribly, and Simon hesitates a little with his strokes. Ben’s mouth finds his collarbone and he bites down hard, thrusting roughly into Simon’s curled hand, and he comes with his mouth sealed on Simon’s skin. 

Ben leaves without a word, extricating himself from their tangle of limbs dispassionately. Simon turns his head just in time to see his black coat disappear back into the club before the door swings shut again. 

Simon blows out a breath, and it hangs in the air, indecisive, before it melts away. His head falls forward, and he looks at the mess in his hand blankly, thinking, _so this is what a car crash feels like. No wonder no one likes them._

*

He’s late the next Monday morning, having spent too long staring down at his coffee and pushing his cereal around in the bowl.  The crew’s getting ready with scripts and turning cameras on, the unblinking red light of the Autocue. He slides into his seat and clasps his hands together, and hopes for the usual; _let the guests be funny, let Anne not have put Phil in a bad mood again, and please God, let me get the timing right._

They have yet another member of the Saturdays again, and Simon has to squint to see if he recognizes her. He doesn’t, and he’s relieved. Stock jokes then, nothing would come to him spur the moment and land him in deep shit. He’s normally not opposed to deep shit; he and deep shit are practically lifelong pals at this point. But not today. Not this week. Not when he still has Ben Whishaw’s sad, sad eyes tracking his every move in his mind. 

His jokes come out just right; no slanted angle to his punch lines, but Phil looks at him worriedly when the cameras are focused elsewhere. Simon gives him the thumbs up and then turns it into a pose when the camera swings back, and then it’s business as usual. 

*

Noel, of all people, tells him about it.

Noel fucking Fielding. What his life has come to. 

“At first, I thought he was joking, you know?” Noel’s got a habit of phrasing everything as a question when he’s drunk. Simon has to pay attention just to pick out the ones that aren’t rhetorical. “Because they were this rainbow happy couple. Garish, really. But then Ellie said the same thing, so I guess that’s it.”

Simon blinks. “Er.” He says, as Noel looks at him expectantly. “What was the question?”

“What do you, Simon Amstell, Homosexual Extraordinaire,” Noel says, pretending to read the menu as a cue card, “think of the breakup of fellow queers Bradshaw and what’s-his-name?”

“That you’re a fucking Jewish bastard and that you should rot in hell,” Simon replies, mostly by rote. Then it hits him. “Wait, what?”

“What was that wanker’s name, the twinky one?” Noel gestures vaguely with a half-empty glass. 

“Whishaw?” Simon asks. There’s a rough, scraping feeling at the back of his throat, mixing with the taste of the horrific Dr Pepper mixed with actual pepper Noel had presented him with earlier. He thinks, light-headedly, that he might throw up. “Ben Whishaw?”

“That’s the one!” Noel crows triumphantly. He ruffles Simon’s hair. “They broke up last Friday, I think. At least, that’s when Dan told me, and he seemed to have the impression I cared deeply about the issue. The only reason I remembered it at all was because you sort of remind me of Whishaw.” His tone becomes almost indulgent. “Yeah, you’re like the equally twinky, yet loud and Jewish version of Ben Whishaw.”

Simon thinks of excusing himself in advance of starting to puke on Noel. His throat feels like sandpaper and slime, a combination that should never be felt in anyone’s mouth. He then thinks better of it. Noel deserved any bodily fluids Simon chose to throw up over him. 

He thinks vaguely of the way Ben had caught his eye across the room, how it had felt a little like he couldn’t breathe. He thinks of Ben’s determination, that little frown. It couldn’t have been an hour after they’d broken up. 

Well. At least Simon now knows why he had looked so sad. 

He feels a laugh build up in his chest, hysterical and out of control like a flood. _Better build an ark, motherfuckers, ‘cause there’s no way you’re surviving this one._

*

A bookshop, then, because Simon’s feeling nostalgic and tragic and all those terrible things that drive men to buying secondhand books and hard liquor. 

There’s actual dust on the books, and he’s sneezing within ten minutes. A bored looking teenager at the counter wordlessly hands him a box of tissues and he thanks her and grabs a couple.

He's checking out a copy of Wuthering Heights that looks old enough to be a manuscript when he looks up just in time to catch Ben's eye. 

He freezes. 

Ben isn't doing anything, just watching, his neck tilted at an angle. Simon doesn't trust it an inch; he's a comedian, and it’s instinct to note the way Ben's knuckles are white around the spine of the book he's clutching. 

But then, Ben's not exactly ordinary, either. Even as he watches, his grip relaxes to match his bland expression, which has grown pretty fucking bland, considering. Simon finds himself thinking, _what would Harkness do?_

Harkness would fucking run screaming for his life, away from the slice of shadow in Ben's eye. Harkness has an actual survival instinct after all, and more importantly, Harkness isn't a comedian, is he? 

Simon walks towards Ben. 

"So you've got a book there, I see." he says, and doesn't allow himself to cringe.

Ben actually looks surprised, the frost in his eyes melting away to reveal shock, like his absolute social awkwardness was unexpected. Simon thinks back to another book shop, this one in the other, more fashionable end of London, shouting Ben's name at the top of his lungs. Whishaw doesn't have a leg to stand on.

"Yeah." Ben says, looking up at him, and there's a  look in his dark eyes, one that Simon doesn't know what to make of. Almost dangerous. Like he's thinking of all the ways he can take Simon apart.  

And then Simon gets it. His heart sinks, just a little. 

Ben was _in_ _love_ with that asshole Bradshaw. 

So he shrugs, doesn't bite down on the first thing that comes to mind but tastes the coppery tang of blood on his tongue anyway. "I like books. Books are great."

He watches Ben's eyes narrow fractionally, before a faint ghost of a smile crosses his lips. "Yeah, they're alright." he looks like he can't quite believe he's saying that. Simon knows the feeling.

There's a sick, clutching sensation in Simon's stomach, excitement running along his skin and in a blur of an artist’s easel with a visceral mix of fear and nerves and anticipation. _Something's going to happen,_ Audrey Hepburn says in his mind. _I can feel it in my bones._

Can't we all. 

Ben says, casually, "My place is empty right now." 

Simon's heart stops. But only for a little while. &nbsp 

*

Simon's writhing on the bed, fingers snagging in the sheets and hips arching uncontrollably. There's the barest hint of a smirk on Ben's lips as he thrusts his fingers in languidly, hitting and hooking around the prostate. Three fingers, over ten minutes. Simon feels like he's coming apart at the seams. 

Simon twists, wanting to see Ben's long fingers disappearing into him, but Ben shoves him down on to the bed with a touch with a whisper of roughness behind it. Simon lies back on the bed, pupils blown wide and every nerve ending screaming for _more more more,_ and he clenches brutally around Ben's fingers.

Ben swears. The fingers leave him and Simon bites his lip against the groan. 

Ben's cock is long and curved and gorgeous, flushed and hard. Simon stares before the condom goes on, and then he falls back on the bed as Ben carefully lines himself up and pushes in. 

Simon squirms. He could take more, who was Ben kidding? He looks up, eyebrow arched, and Ben smiles that almost-smile again, and thrusts all the way in, in one clean motion.

Simon's hips lift off the bed. He makes an incoherent noise, part broken swear and part groan. 

Ben stays very still, hands braced on either side of Simon's head, looking down at him with eyes the color of a storm. His lips look swollen and red, his cheeks pale as marble. He looks so perfect Simon forgets all context, just pulls him down and kisses him, long and slow and deliberate. 

Ben makes a surprised noise against his mouth, but then relaxes, slow, smooth, matching his thrusts to the rhythm of Simon's tongue licking into his mouth. His hand finds Simon's cock and his touch is feather-light and teasing, the entire world rearranging itself into this steady rhythm of thrust, stroke, kiss.

When Simon comes, it's glass and light and mirrors exploding, a perfect symphony of destruction. When Ben does, it's with a groan that sounds dangerously like a mangled version of the word _beautiful._

*

Afterward, Ben reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and takes two drags before offering it over to Simon. Once he takes it, Ben gets up and heads for what's presumably the bathroom, leaving a very bemused Simon staring at the cigarette. 

Simon stubs it out very carefully and places it back down at a pleasing angle back on the nightstand. As he does, his eyes catch on the sheaf of papers held in place by a pair of clunky black glasses Simon half-recognizes. 

Simon's never been particularly good at keeping to the beaten path. Here Ben was, giving him the perfect opportunity to slip out, and all Simon wants to do is pick up the script and make Ben read it to him. 

He settles for just taking it gingerly. Ben's name is scrawled on the top, in left-slanting handwriting that Simon examines for a little while before deciding it was probably Ben's. Below, it reads HAMLET: PRINCE OF DENMARK. It's haphazardly highlighted in about five different colors, Hamlet in blue, Horatio in yellow and the rest in all the colors in between. Simon presses his fingers to the indentations where someone has written a vigorous note about blocking in distinctly feminine handwriting, and wonders which one Ben's playing.         

There's the sound of running water from the bathroom and Simon hastily places the script back on the bedside cabinet. When Ben comes back into the room, Simon's slipping into his jeans and looking around for his sweatshirt.

"There's a gig at the Hull tonight," Simon says, when he sees Ben look at the cabinet curiously. He pulls on his sweatshirt, the world going gray and soft and worn for a second before his head emerges on the other side. "Me, and a couple of other people." When Ben raises his eyebrows, he adds quickly, "You should come…if you want." 

When he looks back, the corners of Ben's lips are tugging up in an expression of wonder as much as anything else. "I have rehearsals till nine," he admits.

Simon beams. "I'm on at half past." 

Ben laughs, and abruptly looks surprised at himself. "Alright then."

Simon knows better than to fight the feeling like he'd just won the lottery. Instead, he shrugs pseudo-casually and leaves the flat. 

*

As expected, nothing goes right that night. 

He gets pulled up ahead of schedule because Russell gets a violent allergic reaction from clams and the crowd's antsy and distracted by the delay. When he comes on to the makeshift stage he feels strangely claustrophobic, this terrifying unfamiliarity that he in no way associates with stand up. 

The nausea fades when the challenge really presents itself; getting that crucial first laugh from a crowd of disillusioned Londoners. He throws himself in like a dice, a cartoon character running full tilt off a cliff and for one surreal moment, hanging midair before he looks down and falls. 

There's a bench somewhere behind him but he never once sits, prancing and prowling and pacing the length of the stage, the mike growing steadily heavier in his hand. The crowd loosens after the first ten minutes, and some lightning-quick quips about current boy bands and some disparaging comments about his own dismal sex life, and the laughs become frequent, and then steady, the audience getting pulled in. The overhead light slamming down like a vindictive artificial sun and the sweat gathering at the base of his neck and all of this is good, this is his playground. Words and words and words, arranging themselves in specific orders, and he sees the way they're laughing ‘til tears well up and looking at him like they want to take him home and keep him forever, bless their souls. 

He goes on strong for almost two hours, unheard of in such a small venue, before the manager of the bar comes up and thanks him and he finally, finally gets to collapse on a stool. He nearly misses and ends up sprawling on the ground, but someone catches him and eases him on gently. 

It's Ian, whom Simon recognizes from his days at Popworld, the cute brunette with the wire-rimmed glasses and freckles. He blushes when Simon calls him his savior and orders him a Coke, and Simon eyes him appreciatively even as people crowd in to talk to him. 

Simon hangs on to Ian for the rest of the night, and pretends he isn't scanning the crowd every ten seconds for a mop of unruly dark hair. He never sees it anyway, so when Ian proposes going back to his place, Simon doesn't even think of hesitating. 

*

Slowly, inexorably, Simon Amstell realizes that his life is going to shit. 

This epiphany hits him as he's leaning against the counter one Tuesday morning, wolfing down an apple before he ran off to work. It doesn't really take him by surprise; he's so used to picking apart others' flawed lives by now, he knows a wreck when he sees it. 

On the other hand, his professional life is thriving. All his punch lines come out right and the scripts have been writing themselves and he's been a guest on so many shows he can't quite keep track anymore. The guests on Buzzcocks are consistently entertaining and Phil keeps demanding, _why didn't you think of this before?_

Simon doesn't actually know. He's never before had this preternatural sense of what will work and what won't, this very basic knack for knowing when to hold his tongue. Noel calls it experience. Bill suggests animal sacrifice. 

Whatever it is, it s working, and Simon's fingers are flexing unconsciously as he heads for the studios. He's so preoccupied he doesn't actually notice where he's going until he rams against someone, which is something he didn't actually believe happened to people in real life. 

Even more incredible, the eyes that blink owlishly up at him as he apologizes are _familiar_. 

"Ben Whishaw?" Simon blurts, and then groans inwardly. Not fucking again. He'll probably follow that up with something even more awkward. His mouth never fails to shock him with its social inappropriateness. 

Before it can say something even more helpful -maybe recite Shakespeare at Ben- Ben says, "Sorry I missed your show."

Simon's thought process freezes. "What?"

Ben rubs the back of his neck. "I was planning on coming, but rehearsals went on for longer than we expected." he bites his lip, as if regretting saying all this, and Simon muses that maybe he isn't the only one with a rebel mouth.

He shrugs a little. "It's fine." 

Ben looks at him sharply. "I hear it was one of your best."

And who told you, Simon wonders. A familiar clutching feeling is taking up residence in his chest, vaguely uncomfortable but electric, sparks running up and down his bloodstream. 

"Every day's my best work," he says automatically, and Ben huffs out something between a scoff and a laugh. 

"Well, I'll have to make sure to drop in sometime and catch you at it," he says, a faint blush rising in his cheeks. 

Simon bites the inside of his cheek until it feels bruised. "Anytime," he says in a decent approximation of nonchalance and Ben smiles a little. 

As they're about to pass on -after the inevitable moment of silence so awkward Simon nearly says something about crustaceans to fill it- Simon catches Ben's arm. 

"Should I-" he takes a deep breath and gets it out in a rush. "Shall I drop by tonight?"

Ben's eyes darken immediately and Simon's spine tingles in response. He asks, in a low voice, "Any _obligations_ after?"      

Simon's shaking his head even before he s done asking. "No, I don't have any more gigs this week. You?"

Ben shakes his head. "After nine."

Simon nods, businesslike. _I do this kind of thing every day, can't you tell?_

Ben makes another of those scoff/laugh hybrids. "See you then."

And then he walks away, leaving Simon feeling like he'd missed something. 

*

"Of course we all came in, we always do." Beth sounds almost offended. "We caught the last hour or so of your act. Bloody hilarious, by the way."

"Thank you," Simon says absently. Beth plays Ophelia, if he's not mistaken, opposite Ben's Hamlet. They're all rather excited about it, so Simon slipped in a question of his own amidst the flurry of questions about the play. "So you're sure Ben was with you?" 

Beth raises a finely-plucked eyebrow and Simon holds up his hands placatingly. "Fine, fine, got it. Everyone was there, including Ben and the extras playing the trees. Got it."

She giggles. "We do not have extras playing trees. And what's this sudden interest in Ben Whishaw, hmm?"

Simon bites his lip, trying to navigate through the quagmire of lies that immediately come to mind to find the most plausible one. Unfortunately, he hesitates too long, and she laughs, clapping her hands in delight. 

"You _fancy_ him, don't you?" she crows, and Simon flushes and looks away. Really, he's a professional. This was getting ridiculous. "Don't worry, Si, he was laughing as much as the rest of us. He did leave as soon as you got off the stage, though. I didn't quite catch what he said."

Simon thinks sickly of the way he clung to Ian like he was a lifebuoy, and later, the soft flickering glow of scented candles at Ian's apartment as Simon fucked him from behind. 

"You alright, Si?" Beth asks, peering closely at him. 

He gives her the biggest smile in his repertoire. "Of course I am. Now let's talk about that hideously feminine boyfriend of yours."

She's instantly defensive, and Simon thinks that he hasn't lost it yet. 

*

Simon yawns until his lungs burn and his jaw cracks and his eyes water. When he opens his eyes, Ben chuckles. "Tired?"

It's been one of those days when he couldn't blink in case he missed something, had to wield his sense of humor like a sword. Exhilarating, at the time. Now he's fucking exhausted.

"Not too much for another round," Simon says hopefully, and Ben rolls his eyes. 

"You look like you're going to fall asleep on your feet." He bites his lower lip, and falls quiet for so long Simon's about to initiate the another round of sex anyway when he says, "You could stay here, if you want."

Simon goes perfectly still. 

"I mean, you look like you can barely walk, and you have work in the morning, so." Ben flushes and looks away. "I mean, if you want."

Simon roots around desperately. "I want."

Ben clears his throat, but his cheeks remain faintly pink. "Oh. Good."

*

Ben looks at him contemplatively through the cigarette smoke. "You haven't asked about the play yet."

He's tangled up in the sheets, looking impossibly lovely with his legs crossed. Simon looks up at him lazily and wishes he could maybe sketch him out on a foolscap, fold it up and keep it in his wallet. 

"Don't have to," he says with a smirk. "I have my ways."

Ben makes that half-scoffing laugh again. "Hamlet himself spying for you, then?"

"Among others. He always seemed a dodgy sort of bastard."

Ben laughs outright at that. 

"All that uncle-killing," Simon continues, puffing at an imaginary cigar. "It seems unbalanced, somehow. Makes you wonder what other sorts of wildly inappropriate behavior he gets up to."

Ben pins him to the bed, and Simon's genuinely surprised, looking up at him with wide eyes. Ben's expression is serious, but there's laughter shimmering in his eyes and the breath gets knocked straight out of Simon.  

"Hamlet," Ben says studiously, "is a good and righteous prince and I won't hear anything against him."

Simon struggles to recover. When he does, he reaches for his imaginary cigar once more. "Practicing homosexual, homicidal tendencies, poncy way of speaking, bad habit of condemning random maidens to nunneries." he lists, and Ben watches his mouth. "Hamlet is the most fucked-up of them all."

Ben looks at him, the corners of his lips twitching. "Done?"

Simon throws his imaginary cigar over his shoulder, and Ben kisses him. 

*

"Mother, it's my _job_ ," Simon protests, phone jammed between his ear and shoulder as he rummages in his drawers for a pen.  "They're not paying me to be nice to all those people."

"Well, it wouldn't hurt," his mother argues. "Just once in a while. Be nice to one of those handsome boys, and maybe you'll be surprised."

Simon freezes. 

His mother goes on about him never bringing any boys over for Christmas, how his Grandma's dying to have someone new at their dinner table. He lets her talk, staring unseeingly at the open drawer.

"Well?" she ends, and then there's silence.

Simon forces himself to speak. It's not something he'd thought he'd ever have to do. "Well, what?"

"Is there a boy you're keeping to yourself?" his mother sounds hopeful. Simon reflects that it's been almost two years since he last had someone to bring home. To his mother's knowledge, that's it, the last human contact he had. 

He thinks about the string of failed dates and one night stands. He thinks of the finger shaped bruises on his hips that Ben had left behind, and his throat goes unforgivably dry.

"No boyfriends," he says, in a hoarse voice. "Work, you know."

There’s a delicately disbelieving silence on her end, before she seems to let it slide. "Well, don't let work drown you. You'll need someone to snark at when you're too old to work, too."

"I'll remember that," he says dryly, and his mother makes tuttting noises. 

He says a hurried goodbye, stating that he has to go down to the studios. She lets him flee, and he hangs up gratefully. Then he realizes that he has almost three hours until he has to go to work. 

Eastenders reruns it is, then. 

*

It becomes a regular thing after that. Simon shoulders the door open and Ben looks up from whatever he's pretending to read. A subtle dance, as it were, as if this wasn't a sure thing, before they fell into bed. 

The sex, at least, is unfailingly mind-blowing. Simon will have to take care to remember that when this is all over and he's left, inevitably, with a splintered heart; the sex was fulfilling. 

Fulfilling enough to skip Friday nights at the pub with Noel and Phil and Dan. Which, in retrospect, is pretty fucking fulfilling. 

Ben seems guilty about it, insisting that Simon doesn't have to let it get in the way of his plans. He has rehearsals all hours of the day, getting steadily more demanding, and Friday night is pretty much the only time he has off. Simon wonders whether he should be proud that Ben's only free time is spent with him, but he ends up feeling uncertain. 

Sleeping with an actor is tricky. He's so tired he can barely focus on some days, making Simon roll his eyes and put him to bed with the promise of continuing after. Ben always sleeps through the night, and Simon leaves a note when he goes back to his flat before work. 

On other nights, he's like wildfire, eyes glittering and appraising as he looks Simon over. Chills to the spine and Simon trembles when Ben first touches him, and it feels like the earth itself moving, a shift in tectonic plates when Ben fucks him. They go on for hours like that, dawn creeping in through the windows and the makeup department tutting their disapproval at the dark circles under Simon's eyes. 

On a rare handful of nights, Ben looks at him like he's drowning and puts his arms around his neck. The warm line of his body against Simon's, all jagged edges and hard angles. Simon doesn't know what to say, so he just holds on. 

He holds on. 

*

"Want to go to the theatre with me?" Ben asks one day, looking up from whatever he's reading. He has a felt tip pen in his hand and a pair of glasses, but he's naked otherwise, feet tucked under the duvet. 

Simon has to blink to focus on what he's saying. "Pardon?"

"I mean," Ben adds hurriedly, "if you don't have anything better to do. We're having dress rehearsals, and it might be terribly boring because tech week isn't over yet, but." he trails off, a flush rising on his cheeks. "Shut up, Amstell."

Simon smirks. "Of course I'll come."

Ben looks up, too quickly to be casual. He looks at Simon for almost five seconds at a stretch, then reaches out and pulls him into a lazy kiss. Simon wonders whether Ben can feel his hammering heart against his lips. 

They get dressed, Simon back to the faded sweatshirt he'd been wearing when he came over, Ben piling on layers as he has a tendency to do. He's openly envious of the way Simon never gets cold, peering at him resentfully from under a beret. 

Simon raises his eyebrows incredulously when Ben hunts up an umbrella from a corner of the flat and shakes it. "Rain," he explains, defensively. "Dan'd kill me if I get a cold."

Simon bites his lip against the sarcasm threatening to pour out. "Can't have that, can we?"

Ben gives him the finger in reply.

They argue about who should hold the umbrella on the way after it jabs Simon's head viciously. Height and relative chivalry are discussed, and Simon finally wrestles it out of Ben's protesting grip and lets water fall over them for a brief interlude both in the process. Ben calls him a bloody wanker and huddles close, limiting both their movements. 

When they get to the theatre, they’ve both got glistening raindrops perched precariously on their hair. Simon can feel the condensation seep downwards towards his skull, and he reaches out and scrubs Ben's head with his sleeve. Ben yelps and fights back, and they're both significantly wetter than they were when they first came in. 

Ben drops the umbrella off into a stand shaped like a shoe, pointing out the direction to the theatre and to the green room. Simon’s been to the Royal before. He’s performed in it once, part of an ensemble of aspiring comedians jostling for attention. He has mixed feelings, at best, about the whole thing. 

Ben's telling him not to break anything important when someone from the crew swoops in and ushers him towards the green room. 

Simon wanders into the theatre, hands in his pockets. Someone waves him over; he recognizes her from the Buzzcocks crew. Naomi, he thinks. Naomi with the boyfriend from Essex.

They sit together and share a packet of crisps as the crew rushes around with identical frenzied expressions. Their exaggeratedly loud munching and laughter earns a few pained expressions from the director, but Naomi whispers that _he_ 's actually the boyfriend from Essex, so they don't have anything to worry about.    

Before the lights dim and the overheads come on, Naomi asks, "Who are you here to woo, then, Simon?"

Simon grins. "Guess."

Naomi laughs, as the director calls for silence. "Challenge accepted."

The play begins. 

*

After the rehearsal, Simon's completely unsubtle about sneaking off backstage and Naomi looks a bit stunned. "Ben Whishaw? Really, Si? How'd you _do_ it?" 

Simon shrugs, bounces a little on the heels of his feet and slips through the door Naomi points out for him.

He corners Ben and kisses him, backed up against a wall and his hands curled loosely around Ben's wrists. Ben seems equally desperate, surging into him and biting at his lips, running his tongue over the bite marks. Heat lightning and electricity, a live wire. 

Simon goes on his knees and blows him, half hidden in the shadows, and Ben clings to his hair, bites down on his own wrist to hold in the noises. Ben's hard, must have been throughout the play; Simon makes it quick, lets the energy and want that built in him during the play out through his mouth, the impossible current of longing that had shot through his veins when Ben appeared onstage, ethereal and perfect and looking like everything good dreamed about for a lifetime.

Ben pulls him to his feet after and kisses him again, taste of salt and makeup. He laughs a little into Simon's lips, hushed and excited. "You liked it, then?"

"It was passable," he says, and when Ben laughs again, he joins in, clutching at each other and holding on. 

*

Living in London in your twenties means that everyone you talk to is a genius of some kind. Drug addicts and chain smokers and all the wisdom of the world hanging behind a screen of smoke. Ideas and plans and the conversation runs like a river, Simon arguing with his hands and Ben sitting beside him, quiet, attentive.

The pub the cast goes to is one Simon's never been to before, which is saying something, teetotaler or no. He sits beside Ben all night as he talks to everyone at the table, keeping an eye on the open space near the back door, calculating angles and spaces to move about. Give him a stool and a mike, and he could own this crowd. 

Ben catches him at it, laughing a little and flagging down the manager, and next thing he knows, he's got a gig coming Wednesday. 

Ben sprawls back on his seat as Simon pretends to glare, a small smirk playing on his lips. Simon steals the olive from his drink vindictively and Ben rolls his eyes. 

When he stands up and goes off to the gents, Naomi sidles on to Ben's vacated seat. 

"Pretty impressive, considering." She says, a light hint of laughter in her voice as Simon's eyes snap from watching Ben navigate between the tables to hers guiltily. "I hope you know that my boyfriend will probably beat you up if you hurt him."

Sure enough, the boyfriend from Essex -who had been introduced to him earlier as Daniel Jacobson, director - is giving him a parts speculative, parts menacing look. 

Naomi seems unconcerned. "Of course, if Ben hurts you I'll beat both of them up, but that's implicit."

Simon laughs, feeling it bubble uncontrollably in his chest. 

When Ben comes back, his eyes crash immediately into Simon's, and Simon licks his lips suggestively. Ben flushes, and Naomi groans. 

"Go, go," Daniel the boyfriend from Essex says distractedly when they say their goodbyes. Naomi hugs them both, and Simon laughs at Ben's expression of surprise. 

*

Simon's place is closest, so they walk there, umbrella hanging at Simon's side. Ben makes a great show of stepping over puddles, and Simon bounces on them, making drops of moonlight-colored water fly around, cling to their coats. 

The hems of their jeans are drenched by the time they climb the two flights of stairs to Simon's flat. He unlocks the door and Ben all but falls in, still laughing at a comment Simon had made about his neighbors. 

Ben the Cat jumps down from his perch on the sofa and comes over to bump against their legs, purring obnoxiously. 

"Hamlet," Simon says quickly. "His name's Hamlet."

Ben gives him a look, and bends down to scratch behind the newly christened Hamlet's ears. It looks at him appraisingly, and Simon goes into the kitchen to leave them at it. 

When he comes back, a mug of coffee in each hand, Ben's sitting cross-legged on the floor. He's taken his shoes off and is dangling the laces enticingly in front of Hamlet's face while the cat bats at them delightedly. 

"You're spoiling him," Simon says, holding Ben's mug out to him. The mug's got a cartoon of a friendly-looking sheep on it and Ben smiles a little as he takes it in both hands. 

"Shortest way to a parent's heart is through the child," Ben says, seemingly casual. 

Simon spills his coffee. 

They stare at each other, Ben's eyes wide and open, words and music and a simple offering; _it's yours to take, all of it,_ said Mr. Rochester. 

Simon, for his part, is struck dumb, washed clean of thought for the first time in his entire life, all the space within him filled with light and nothing else. 

He opens his mouth to speak, and the words dance out of reach, laughing like schoolchildren. He laments for his career. Mutes make for poor comedians, and his only worth in the world was his words. 

What of Simon Amstell now?

Ben speaks for him. "Would you like to go out for dinner with me tomorrow?" looking at him from under his eyelashes, biting his lower lip. 

"Like a date?" _It speaks._

Ben catches his eye, doesn't let him break away. Simon wonders how he knew that Simon was terrible at this sort of thing. 

Ben nods, slow, deliberate.

All the air Simon's ever inhaled leaves his lungs in one long, endless sigh. His body goes slack with relief, and he nearly falls over. 

"Yes," he manages.

That's all. And for once, that's enough.

THE END 

**Author's Note:**

> Thus proving that there really are people left in this fandom who aren't Simon himself. ;)


End file.
